


could you tether me?

by abovethethroat



Series: autistic peter parker [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Peter Parker, Disability, Disabled peter parker, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Iron Dad, It's unintentional though, Meltdown, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Tony Stark, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Has A Heart, asd, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 04:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19434097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethethroat/pseuds/abovethethroat
Summary: Peter decides that telling Mister Stark about his sensory issues is the best way to go. But actually having a meltdown and dissociating in front of his mentor was not something he wanted to happen, damn it.





	could you tether me?

**Author's Note:**

> N O T E [FEB 2020] : the next part of this series is now up! 
> 
> if you want alerts when I post more fics in this series, make sure to subscribe to the SERIES and not this fic!!!!

The lack of sensory input makes Peter feel like he's floating away, up into space, and he's always hated that feeling. The detachment from reality, the way his brain logs off and leaves his body floating in the nothingness. May is always so, so careful to always stimulate his senses in one way or another when she’s off work; if it isn't a weighted pillow in his lap or his aunt leaning up into his personal space, tethering him to the earth with the warmth of her arm, it's advanced crossword puzzles that don't leave room in his brain to allow for the disconnect to happen.

Everyone around him knows to not question it. His teachers keep a steady hand on his shoulder when engaged in conversation with the teen, Ned always squeezes around him like a python when he senses that Peter is agitated, and MJ’s carded her long fingers through his hair during many sleepovers. They know, but they don't _know_. Most of them have never seen what happens when Peter's yanked from reality like a ragdoll, so they can't possibly have the full picture.

Peter can hear his aunt letting him know that _of course it’s alright to go with Stark to the lab on Tuesdays,_ granted he’ll tell the man about his disability and the sensory issues that come with it. He doesn’t think that sounds like a fair deal at first, but May only has to remind him of the last time he had a meltdown and dissociated around people who hadn’t explicitly been told what to do to recall why just waltzing off (and to a _lab_ , no less) would be a terrible idea. He knows the man will have to know about everything going on with him before anything could possibly move forward with lab visits and whatnot. Before something happens again. Plus, he doubts that someone as attentive as _Tony Stark_ hasn’t started to pick up on the small details by now.

Tony hasn’t known the Parkers for more than a couple of months at this point, but it has quickly become clear to him that the kid is not quite like others his age, and not just because of the spider bite. At first he thinks it’s just Peter being shy around him, looking more at his nose than into his eyes, and constantly fiddling with the strings of his hoodie while bouncing the heels of his feet non stop. _High-strung_. 

He gets a demo of the homemade spider suit one night after they’ve all ordered takeout together and put on a movie, _bonding_ , and Peter visibly relaxes as soon as he zips the suit up and pulls the hood over his head. The fidgeting behavior is still present, but not as...prominent. No, that isn’t the right word, is it? The repetitive motions from before almost bordered on _violent._ He tries not to worry about it, because _this is a super powered spider-kid_ , and May hadn’t said anything when Peter bounced his leg so hard against the livingroom table it _bruised_ earlier during dinner. 

He hasn’t come close enough to the suit yet to see the myriad of weighted pockets lining the sweater worn underneath the modified hoodie, or how it’s _just_ too small in order to squeeze around Peter's lean body with firm, even pressure. The gloves are important, as well. They give him that extra grip when scaling buildings, but they're also as tight as they can possibly be while still being practical and without cutting off the blood flow to his fingers. The digits throb whenever Peter's heartbeat spikes on patrol, but he _invites_ the feeling with open arms. As long as he's tethered, present, he doesn't mind. 

It takes another week after that suit demonstration for Peter to work up the courage needed to tell his mentor all about how he needs constant controlled sensory input in order to not forcefully eject out of his own body and have it self destruct while he’s up in the stratosphere. And _geez_ , that’s a mouthful. He knows it’s most likely a lot to take in, but he’s been this way ever since he can remember, so this is his baseline. His own normal. 

“M’sr- Mister Stark,” he begins, not at all as confident as he wished he’d be before he opened his mouth. A knuckle puts pressure on the knee bruise, and pain blossoms in his leg. May’s out to lunch with some friends from work, so Peter knows it’s safe to bring the suit out of his room. He’s nervous though. He isn’t big on letting other people touch his stuff, especially when it’s something as important to him as the suit. 

He worries over a cuticle with his finger, adds some pressure with the edge of his nail. _Scrape, scrape, scrape-_ He doesn’t know how to tell Tony about this because he’s never had to do it on his own before. When he was little, it was his mom and dad that had hush-hush conversations with the daycare teachers and Ned’s parents, making sure he always had something to fiddle with. He was never there for any of that. 

His parents never hid anything from May or Ben, so that wasn’t as much of _telling_ them as it was them _seeing_ Peter grow up dressed in weighted vests and compression socks. When his parents died, they already knew all about the anxiety of unfamiliar routines, unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar food. But they also knew his face lit up like the sun when he talked about science or LEGOs, and that he liked to snuggle up between the two of them in bed at night and during lazy weekend mornings.

Peter knows how to talk about protons and building blocks, about Star Wars and his favorite music. He _thinks_ he’s got the scripts for certain polite conversations down pat, but there are new things to learn all the time and sometimes he can’t really understand what someone’s trying to tell him (especially if the person’s not familiar, if he hasn’t memorized and decoded their mannerisms before). 

In the days between deciding to tell _the_ Tony Stark and now, he’s tried to create his own script for the conversation they’re about to have by taking cues from ones he already knows. The two of them are kind of casual with each other at this point, but Tony’s a bit closed off sometimes and Peter’s noticed that the man often scrubs his hand over his goatee when uncomfortable, and that’s usually whenever they enter _personal territory_. The man isn’t usually big on touching either, but Peter forgets sometimes and leans in a little too close anyway.

_Alright,_ Peter tells himself as they sit down next to each other on the sofa, Peter putting the weighted pillow in his lap and playing with his long sweater sleeves. He’s got no real plan for this, and that terrifies him. _Don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up_ is like a mantra in his head. At least he’s comforted by the knowledge that this conversation will take up so much of his brain power and energy that if the tether’s cut loose, he’ll only hover a bit off the ground, at most. _No soaring off into the sky today. Hopefully._

“So...um,” Peter tries. He decides that rather than having to recount every detail himself, he’ll just ask what his mentor already knows and try to fill in the blanks after. Yeah. Because maybe he’s already figured it out and can do most of the talking. _Perfect._ “I-, eh, do you-. What do you know, like, about _me_ I mean?” he asks. 

Tony does this _thing_ with his face and shifts, and Peter thinks it’s probably confusion, because that question wasn’t very specific. “Sorry. That wasn’t-, wasn’t very clear.” _Deep breath, blink a few times, scrape, scrape, scrape-_ “Other than the spider stuff. Yep.” The question is out in the open, and he pulls some more on his cuticle. 

“ _About you?_ ” Tony asks, and flicks his eyes to the sock-clad feet bouncing on the carpet next to him, thinking. Tony takes a minute to mull it over, and Peter has to rock a bit and hum to himself in order to compensate for the lack of audio input. When a hand grips his arm so, so gently, he stops humming and looks over at Tony. The warmth of the palm is nice through his sweater, and he leans into it in appreciation.

“I know that you...love 80s jams. I know that PB&J sandwiches gross you out,” Peter chuckles a bit at that because _it’s true_ , “You’re fast as lightning when it comes to assembling LEGO builds, and even _faster_ solving equations and reciting the periodic table.” Peter can’t help but beam, because he takes pride in those things. Sure, people other than Ned, May and Mister Stark might not understand why those things matter so much to him, but those are constants in his life. He’s always been the nerdy kid and he’s _excelling_. Besides, he likes the things he can understand.

“But,” Tony continues, “I also know that you’re anxious, squirt.” Peter has to look away at that one, because even though he knew it would come up, he’s still _embarrassed_ about it. He makes sure to look anywhere but Tony’s side of the room, and pretends he can’t see him, while slowly shrinking into himself. _Foot against the floor. Weight in lap. Warm hand on left shoulder. Nail against cuticle. Scrape, scrape, scrape-_ The hand on his arm is suddenly gone, and he doesn’t try to hold back the little whimper. He compensates for that loss of contact by rocking a bit faster ( _back and forth, back and forth, back and forth_ ). 

“See, this is what I’m talking ‘bout, right here. At first I thought you were just shy around me and wanted to keep your hands occupied. I wouldn’t blame you, lots of people would probably faint in my presence,” he jokes. “But you-, this isn’t _about_ that, is it?” Peter smooths his fingers over the weight on his thighs, and shakes his head a bit. _No._

“I...may have an idea of what’s going on, why you hold yourself the way you do, but-, listen, I don’t want to assume anything here, kid.” A sharp exhale. Fingers running over that goatee. _He is uncomfortable._ Peter looks his way and realizes it’s probably his time to talk, to explain himself. Raking his nails over his lap and getting ready to speak, he takes a breath. _It’s now or never. Scratch, scratch scratch-_

“There’s-, um, there’s this... _thing._ ” Deep breath. _Another scratch._ Here it goes. “That I have. ASD, eh, autism.” He’s wringing his hands together now, and he finds that once he’s spilled the beans he just _can’t stop talking_ . “Yep. Autistic, that’s me. That’s what you were getting at, right? Because it’s not like I’ve been hiding it or anything but I’ve never had to tell anyone about it by myself before and I’m really really not _good_ at this kind of stuff, like, at _all_ , and I’ve wanted to tell you that I have to do certain things because-” 

“ _Breathe_ , Pete. Dang. That must be the most I’ve heard you say at any one time about something not science related, I’m surprised. But in response to the question, yes, that’s what I suspected.” A brief pause. He raises his hand a little bit, asks silently if he can put it back on Peter’s arm. _Yes, please!_ The rambling’s kept him down on its own, but he wants to be sure he’ll stay present. He settles for a nod, and the warm touch returns. 

“This...touchy feely thing, the jitters, is this part of it?” Tony asks, and Peter’s so relieved the hand’s back, but also that he doesn’t have to spell it out. He still has to explain the _why,_ though.

“I float away sometimes. Into space.” Peter forgets that Tony’s actually entered a wormhole once and might not get that it isn’t _the_ _literal cosmos_ he’s describing, and quickly adds that part before the man has a heart attack. “My brain, I mean. It kind of...leaves my body sometimes if I don’t keep myself grounded, does that even make _sense_? And-. I don’t know where, um, where I _go_ when that happens, but there’s nothing in control, nothing online up here,” he says while tapping two fingers against the side of one of his temples. “ _Feeling things_ is the only way for me to stay grounded and not get flung straight out of the atmosphere.”

Tony takes this moment to squeeze his hand a little tighter around the kid’s arm while processing this new information. “You sure like your space analogies, don’t you?” _An extra squeeze just above the left elbow, pressure. Feels nice._ “Why do you think of it in that way? Why gravitate towards planets? _No pun intended,_ of course.”

Peter has never pondered on it too closely before, always too caught up in trying to avoid that very thing from happening. “I guess-,” he begins, but takes a few more seconds to rock a little before continuing. _Back and forth, back and forth_ . “I guess that’s the closest thing to the experience I could think of.” He suddenly wants to elaborate, wants to make sure Mister Stark really _gets it._ He holds up a hand in front of the two of them, and nods towards it. “See this hand?” The man nods, probably not quite sure where Peter’s going with this. “Imagine you were up in the atmosphere, or _farther_ , even, would you still see me waving at you? Or hear me saying hello? Probably not. You’d still know that the hand’s there, sure, but all you’d see’s the globe spinning.”

“So...what you’re saying is that, when this floaty atmosphere thing’s happening, you check out?”

“Mhm,” he confirms, dreading the next bit he’s about to shove out into the open. “And it’s-, ah, _complicated_ . To get back. It always takes an influx of just _feeling_ before I’m attached to the tether and reeled in again.” _Focus on the pressure of Mister Stark’s hand, c’mon. Don’t be a pussy and_ say _it_ . He knows that he’s got to choose these next words very, very carefully to not give the man false ideas. Because on one hand it’s not at all what it looks like, but on the other it’s just that. Peter thinks that he, too, is way out of his depth here. This is not one of those things he understands; _how to talk about delicate topics_. If there ever was a manual for this, he sure didn’t read it. 

“An influx of feeling?” Tony echoes back, when the kid hasn’t spoken in a bit. It’s as if he knows that there’s more that Peter needs to get off his chest. The pressure on his arm moves slightly closer to his elbow, _it’s warm and good_ . “What kind of feeling are we talking here, what kind of sensory input? Cyndi Lauper’s greatest hits cranked up so high you can feel the bass in that little chest of yours? ‘S that what you need?” A tap on his chest follows the question. _Tap, tap, tap._

“It’s...a little more than that,” he admits. “I’m about to say this-, this huge thing and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, I-, please don’t take it the way it _sounds_ , okay, Mister Stark?” 

“Alright. Out with it, kiddo. I promise I won’t get mad or whatever it is that’s got your tighty whities in a twist, you’re _anxiety’s_ got anxiety right now. I’m a cool guy. _Chill_ , even. I can take it, whatever it is. That old Cap's got nothing on me.” 

He takes another deep breath, steels himself. “It’s violent. I hurt myself coming down from the skies and that’s the only way I get back. At least that I know of.” 

“ _Jesus_ , Pete,” is Tony’s response. “Me not taking this at face value...that means you’re not actively aiming to _harm yourself_ , correct? Please tell me I’m right, Underoos. It’s very, very important that you tell me if you ever feel like you need to do something that could-” he starts, worried and growing tense, but Peter cuts him off.

“ _No_ ! God, no, Mister Stark, never! I see the _globe_ , not the hand. I don’t _want_ to cause any damage, that’s-, that’s not what it is. But what _I_ want isn’t relevant when I’m not in charge of anything this body does. It’s like my brain knows it’s got to claw itself back by getting stimulated and my body’s all like ‘gotcha, pain is the answer.’ All I know is what May and my parents have told me in the aftermath, about what I’ve _done._ ” He was nervous about saying this just a minute ago, but now he’s oddly calm. Strong emotions have a way of reaching him sluggishly, they’re often delayed for a bit if they reach him at _all_ . He’s never really had that part of the human experience figured out. “I remember breaking my arm when I was nine. Well, I don’t _remember_ remember,” he muses and even gives a small chuckle. “But when I got back to my body, my arm was bruised and crooked, and apparently I banged it against my dresser so hard it _dented_.”

When his mentor lets go of his elbow in order to drag a hand through his own hair, then over the goatee, Peter takes the risk and leans in. _This is nice. Very nice._ He takes in all the new places on the side of his torso that now register the warmth, almost basks in it. When Tony shifts just a little bit he’s fully prepared to lean away again and say that he’s sorry for being overly touchy, for just assuming it's _acceptable_ to do that, but there doesn’t seem to be an issue. “It’s fine, kiddo. If you needed a hug you could’ve just _asked_ me, bud. Does this, uh, tether you?”

_Bud, he called me bud._ More warmth spreads through him and he thinks that _maybe this is what it feels like to lay yourself out bare and have the person on the other end accept you as you are._

Peter nods. It _does_ help. “Weight and pressure, ‘s nice,” he mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. He remembers the suit sprawled out on the table, and he makes a grabby motion hoping that his mentor’ll understand and get it for him, because he doesn’t want to lose the touch. _Pressure_. 

“Oh, is this what you’re after?” The warm body jostles a little when reaching for the suit, but promptly returns to how it was, almost as if Tony doesn’t want to move an inch from this position, either. _Maybe he doesn’t,_ Peter thinks. 

“This-,” he says while turning the suit inside out and motioning to the hidden pockets, “This is why I don’t fidget as much in the suit as I’m doing now.”

Tony’s face lights up when he catches on. “Weights, of course. You clever, clever boy!” _Hand in hair, slight ruffling. Also very nice._ “But I’m suspecting this isn’t all the extra input you’ve snuck into this thing, where’s the rest?”

He points to the gloves starting right below where the web fluid cartridges are fastened to the sweatbands. “They’re rigid and tight, so I feel my heartbeat whenever I flex my fingers. And this sweater is actually a bit too small, deliberately, but it’s stretchy fabric all around so it’s all good and I feel the nice pressure on my chest. The pressure’s important.” 

“Mhm, I’m impressed, spiderling. You’ve really used the tools at your disposal and that brilliant mind of yours to create a badass suit tailored to your needs.” He pauses for a bit. “However, I’m _pretty sure_ that feeling your heartbeat in your extremities isn’t healthy, and are you positive you can breathe alright in this, kid? I don’t want my favorite bug splattering to the ground because of something that could’ve been avoided.”

“Arachnid,” Peter says. “Spiders are _arachnids_.”

“Wow, you’re really hitting me with those animal facts. I admit I’m not too familiar with-, what would that be, zoology?” Tony laughs a little before continuing. “But seriously, Peter Rabbit, you sure this hoodie ensemble is one hundred percent safe? I’ve already got a few ideas on how we could improve on this design together if you’re comfortable with retiring this one. What about removing this outer layer right here,” he points to the cut-off hoodie with the drawn-on spider design. “Think of yourself as a competitive cyclist and you’re all set.” Peter wrinkles his nose at that, because _I don’t do cycling, I don’t even own a bike!_ The man realizes that he’s taking it literally, and adds, “Cyclists wear those skin tight getups to reduce the aerodynamic drag and move faster. See why I brought it up? My idea is that we lose the jacket and make the entire suit streamlined, fitted to your body. We can trick it out with your spider emblem, the weights and all that good stuff, just in a more durable and combat appropriate material.”

Peter blinks a few times, fast, because _that’s a lot of information to take in all at once!_ “I...yeah, I think I’d like that.” He’s so grateful that he has Mister Stark in his life. No one outside of his family has ever been invited behind the curtain like this, and he whispers a small _thank you_ as he leans back against Tony’s shoulder. 

“No need to thank me, bud. Designing super suits is kind of my deal, remember? I’ve been doing this since ‘08, what were you back then, five? _God_ , I’m old. And you’re practically a fetus.” 

“ _Hey,_ ” Peter quips back, enjoying this little back-and-forth they’ve got going. They’re not just acquaintances anymore and he’s glad, because he never really knows what to say to not-really-friends when they make small talk. But with Tony it’s different, because he feels more like his guardian, like a _father figure_ . He’s familiarized himself with Stark’s sense of humor, he gets it and can keep up. _I like the things that I can understand,_ he repeats in his head. “But no, actually,” he continues. “I mean _this._ ” He snuggles in a bit closer on the sofa, and one arm snakes around his shoulders as he makes it known that he appreciates the touch, the close proximity. _Pressure, warmth, comfort._

“This what you need to stay in your body and out of space? I know you said that bad things happen when you dissociate, and that you have the lap weight and the whole shebang to stay tethered, but is there anything _I_ can do to keep you present and prevent the scary episodes from happening?”

Peter hums. “Touch is good and helps a lot. And just having you talk about your day is really soothing, I like it when you do that, Mister Stark. It’s-, I just-, um, the absence of anything stimulating or something to focus my senses on is what triggers it, I think. Yeah.” 

Tony smiles and pulls the kid in closer. “I’ll make sure to remember that.” He taps his palm against Peter’s shoulder in a steady rhythm. _Pat, pat, pat._ “Just don’t let that anxious brain of yours keep you from speaking up when there’s something that you need, okay? I’ll give you sensory stimuli when you need it, but I’m not a _mind reader_.”

Peter nods and agrees to let his mentor know when he’s in need of anything. For something so sudden and downright _insane_ , he’s still glad the spider bite happened to him. Because now that he knows what it’s like to have Tony Stark in his corner, he never wants to revert back to how things were before they met, or even before this talk. He feels tethered here in this moment with the weighted pad in his lap, Mister Stark to his left. He’s confident, for once, that he won’t have to keep the meltdowns at bay on his own.

But as Tony’s to realize, the longer Peter goes without a meltdown, the harder he has to work in order to not enter the atmosphere. The months roll by and they work out the kinks in the new slick design, they implement all the cool features to keep Peter’s mind on the ground even when his _body’s_ soaring high over the rooftops. The AI feature Stark installs secretly in the suit (and Peter promptly hacks because why _wouldn’t_ he?) turns out to be good at conversing, keeping the kid sufficiently stimulated while also making sure he doesn’t _die_ on patrol. Looking through the chat logs from the suit, Tony makes sure to add new speech patterns every once in a while to keep the kid stimulated. While not playing the part of a crime fighting arachnid, Peter stays glued to someone’s side as much as possible during his waking hours, and people have long since stopped questioning why that Parker kid wears _weird vests_ to school and is frequently seen swaying in his seat during library hours. 

The thing is, though, that even if hearing the details of not-quite- _his_ spiderling causing bodily harm to himself is nightmare fuel for the man, it’s not even close to seeing it first hand.

Tony sees a glimpse of it one time, of the aftermath, when Peter is days away from his fifteenth birthday and May calls in hysterics, desperately trying to hold the conversation as commotion can be heard on her end of the call. He finds out later that Peter’s been on the verge of dissociating all through the week, and in his haze forgot to put the weighted vest on, forgot to ask for help, forgot about the necessary steps to bring him down again. He forgot every single thing except that he needs to feel, and Tony can only listen in horror as May explains that Peter has scratched wounds all over his body, as well as banged his head against the bathroom sink so hard the ceramic’s begun to crack.

He silently curses his luck, the _kid’s_ luck, for having a meltdown out of the suit and now he can’t check his vitals. Surely he’s concussed, right? _Smashing a sink with your skull will do that to you._ He automatically finds his thoughts veering towards _why can’t he be more careful?_ and _is co-parenting always this stressful?_ but makes an effort to shush that part of his brain. He’s being selfish when this isn’t even the kid’s _fault_ , and this isn’t about Tony.

When he finds the two of them in the apartment’s small bathroom, he’s shocked by the sheer amount of _blood_ . Peter’s nearly passed out on the tile floor, still trying to cause himself pain despite not being able to stand up and being cradled in his aunt’s arms. "N'uh-... _need_ ," he's whimpering so, so quietly, and he thanks whatever higher power there is that Peter is too out of it to use his full strength as he grips around the kid’s wrists to hold him down, along with May reaching for a towel to put under his head. 

There is a jarring disconnect between what he’s seeing and what he knows is really happening. Someone not familiar with what’s playing out might think they’re witnessing a brutal suicide attempt, and act accordingly. Tony’s heard _that_ tale before, and shudders as he imagines an eleven-year-old Peter Parker being mistreated. His eyes are wide and panicked, but Tony knows nothing’s registering. _He’s drifting._ When Peter stops trying to bang the back of his head against the floor and instead starts wiggling around like a wasted college kid attempting to do the worm, his mentor starts humming the one Cyndi Lauper song he really knows, while tapping the tempo firmly against the kid’s small chest. 

“May, could you bring the weighted blanket from his bed, please?” he asks while lifting Peter’s head onto his lap. He avoids the weeping gash right below the hairline while running his fingers firmly through the boy’s matted hair, not really caring that he’s smearing the blood around. Getting the wounds, _especially_ the one on his head, treated is a priority high on the list, but tethering Peter comes before anything else. He needs to come back to himself in a controlled manner, because they don’t want him to be afraid when he does. 

Tony knows he’s on his way back to them since he’s stopped struggling. _His body has had enough,_ his mind supplies for him, and he’s not sure he’s finding the thought all that comforting. May returns, struggling a bit as she drapes the twenty pound blanket over her nephew. They both make sure his hands and feet are covered, and tuck in the edges under him. 

“There you go, baby,” May whispers gently while smoothing out the fabric a bit. “You’re alright now, Peter.”

“Mhm,” Stark chimes in, while taking great care _not_ thinking about the thick blanket soaking up plasma and platelets from the cold bathroom floor. That’s something he’ll let the dry cleaner worry about later. _Definitely._ Peter moans something that’s probably supposed to be words, but is promptly shushed. “What your aunt said, spider burrito. You’re just peachy. Don’t worry about opening that mouth of yours just yet, although I know you’re going to talk my ears off in no time whether I want you to or not. For now, just focus on getting your noggin out of space and back in _here._ ” He taps the kid’s temples in a staccato rhythm, he knows he’ll appreciate that. 

May nods towards him, a silent plea of _please keep talking,_ and Tony launches into a monologue about the tech specs of his latest suit model (“It’s what, like, mark five billion now?”) and playfully urges his favorite spider to come back to himself (“Because you know me, Underoos, I just can’t stop tinkering and lord _knows_ what I’ll do to poor Karen if you don’t restrain me.”) 

It takes a little while longer, but Peter eventually starts showing signs of returning, eyes flitting around the room. Tony breathes a sigh of relief, because he can’t even imagine what this must be like for Peter, and he also _really_ wants to get that nasty head wound seen to. “Hi there, kiddo,” he coos gently. “You back with us, pal?”

Peter looks up at the face above him and furrows his brows in confusion. “Wha-, what _happened_?” he asks, slightly dazed. Tony moves a few strands of hair out of his face before answering.

“You drifted for a bit there, squirt.”

Understanding dawns on his face, and he looks about ready to cry. _Shit,_ Tony thinks. _Someone needs to give me the crash course on how to handle this, for future reference._ “No, hey, buddy, it’s _okay_. You’re good, it’s all good. Isn’t that right, May?” He nods back towards her, the same way she did a few minutes ago, and she nods. “See? Even your ridiculously hot aunt agrees with me. Never thought I’d see the day. So. Here’s what we’re going to do, spider baby. We,” he motions between himself and May, “are going to check you over, carry your little ass into bed, and then once we’re sure you don’t have a concussion, you can nap for the rest of the night. Sound good?”

“Mister Stark, you don’t-,” he begins, but is cut off. He’s started to sit up under the blanket as well, but two sets of hands push him down gently.

“Ah _ah_ , none of that. Either _I_ look you over here, or I’ll have FRIDAY send for one of the suits to take you to the med bay. Now what’s it going to be, me or Cho?”

Peter mumbles a _fine_ while looking defeated and a little confused still. _Doctor Cho can be intimidating, god knows it took me a while to get accustomed to her. Damn Helen._ “I know you want to know what happened, and I’ll tell you all about it later, but right now we need to fix you up, okay?” May hands him the first aid kit he remembered to grab in his haste, and he rummages through it until he finds the antiseptic and some cotton wads. “This might sting a little bit, alright? Grab onto your aunt’s hand if you feel like that might help.”

He begins cleaning the wound, and Peter hisses in pain. “That’s it, I’m almost done. Hold still for me, will you, champ?” The kid mewls and grips May’s hand until his knuckles turn white. _Alcohol in a gaping head wound can’t be nice, poor thing._ Tony throws the soiled cotton wad to the side and grabs a new one. “I’ll just clean your face up a bit, too, okay?” and Peter reaches a hand up in confusion to gently feel around on his cheek, caked with blood. “It’s just a little blood, no biggie. Now, hands off so I can reach. You’ll be squeaky clean in just a sec, good as new.”

Once Peter’s cleaned up and butterfly bandages have been carefully applied to close the gash, they help him into bed. He’s still a little bit shaken up, but the two adults both reassure him that he’s _just fine,_ and he visibly relaxes when they place his weighted blanket and lap pad on top of his body. “Thank you,” he whispers when it’s just him and his mentor in the room. “I’m sorry you had to see this, I never wanted that to happen and I-”

“Hey, _no_ , listen to me,” Tony reprimands. “I’ll drop everything for you in a heartbeat, you know that right? And this...this _thing_ that sometimes happens to you, when the tether’s cut loose, it doesn’t _change_ anything for me, do you understand? My main priority will always be protecting you, kiddo, and if that sometimes means protecting you from _yourself_ , then so be it. You won’t get rid of me _that_ easily, Underoos. Now that you have me, I’m never letting go.”

Peter looks like he’s seconds away from falling asleep, but still gives a loopy smile. “I _always_ had you, Mister Stark,” he whispers. “Before.” The kid nods towards the battered Iron Man plushie sat on one of the shelves across from his bed. It’s licensed, and he knows for a fact that that plush design hasn’t been manufactured since 2009. It’s one of the originals, mark three. And _shit_ , Tony thinks. _I love this kid._

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in ages, but I was itching to project some Autistic Feels [tm] onto Peter, ok? Ok. Some parts of this fic are taken from real life (as I'm autistic, myself) but I usually have a hard time with too much input instead of the lack thereof shown in the fic. 
> 
> I still get email alerts about "honey bee" getting kudos by the way, two years on!!! That's crazy! I'm glad y'all seem to enjoy my ASD fic(s). Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Also: thanks to @Maria5798 for pointing out that spiders are, in fact, not insects lol
> 
> When it comes to my other fics, I encourage you to check out "baby what goes up comes down (this i know, so here i go)" if you're into angst! It's at 27k words as of february 2020, and my guesstimation (lol) is that we're about halfway through. Just be aware that there's heavy, recurring drug use in the fic, so if that's triggering to you, I don't recommend it. Stay safe!


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